Oh what an effort it is
To love you like I do!
Or not effort at all
For love of you

Is simple and clean
It is true, this grief as white
This joy as pure
The air is in my heart

My blood is born of sunlight
My handkerchief made of
Ocean, sound reverberating
In my crown chakra

And my cotton pants
A comfort for the dry and green
Days of gratitude and good weather
The Earth, that’s what I love

Her wonderful sustainability
Her waist is slender and her
Seasons are ever young
A tree, a town, a meadow and birds.



Mayflower, where art thou?
The snow-flawed days are done
Rains fix their resolutions
On the coming green to testify

That spring is as bright
As the homeland hearth
The gluttonies from which
All life sprung, galaxies wide

As the Everlasting Monday of growing things
Mayflower, Mayflower, where art thou?
The Spring she cannot be muzzled
Her superior pages of Nature force

Through the long wait, all patience
The roses know no maladies
Only the lovebeds of mornings after
That litter Daybreak with a white light
The snow-flawed days are done.

Photo Courtesy:

Notes to Hands I cannot See


I am a beggar for experience
That drop like stars from some beyond
The dropped flakes of virtual minds
We meet more people, every year

I am a beggar for the Color Green
Who tells me secrets of dying syllables
The poetry of admitting wombs
That are not fertile, nobody is perfect

I am a beggar for life’s true worth
To find the deep meaning, behind the chatter
To eclipse the tremors of expectation
And love the gravity of life’s uncertainty

I am a beggar for higher lands
A divine Ferret whom I cannot find
A spiritual paradise of some extremity of mercy
A novel woman who welcomes me home

I am a beggar, because of what I perceive I lack
Toyed in the final inches from love
This is my letter to the world
Of what I risked to gain savory everything.